Feste's Lute

Little feet in bright blue shoes, race to find a tiny hand tracing patterned leaves. Mumbled words, and offkey tunes, grace the garden until there breaks a joyful scream. They find delights in every rock, in every swirl of snail. In happiness the moments crawl, like glades beyond the veil. A curious finger pokes a waiting nose and peals of laughter sound. Making snowless angels they tell their tales in motions on the ground. 

Lace and cotton, by grass-stained denim, the pair are mirth and phantasia. Golden tress and dark black locks, their inclined heads mingle like day meets night. He babbles and she nods, and then a moment later the roles are reversed like some trick puppet, but the wonder never leaves their eyes. And in the dusk, when time to part, he clumsily kisses a tiny flower and she claps as she spies the first star in the east.

She is faster… just see her dart. The boy runs smiling and wide-eyed shows his adoration. When all is spent, in gasps collapse… her kiss finds flushing cheek. A hug, a gentle whisper and those tiny hands so softly woven, can never forget the weave. Playmates, confidants, protectors, and in time, so much more. 

So they may see us in this darkened world. 

I still only want to run and find your hand.